


Desire

by psikitty



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikitty/pseuds/psikitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt</p>
<p>Imagine person B of your otp unknowingly taking an aphrodisiac, and for the rest of the night trying to jump person A’s bones, while person A frequently has to keep reminding them that they are in public.</p>
<p>When spells collide, Fenris' defenses come crashing down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desire

To be fair, they couldn’t really take him anywhere else. At least, that’s what Hawke and Isabela had thought when they barged into Varric’s room at the Hanged Man, a barely conscious Fenris dangling between them, his arms slung over their shoulders. Garrett kicked the door shut behind him as everyone stood en masse at their entrance.

“Anders!” Garrett called, “need some help here.”

 

Aveline and Merrill were busy moving discarded cards and half consumed tankards off the table to clear a space for the Tevinter elf, while Varric and Sebastian pulled chairs away from the long table.

Fenris’ head rolled back on his shoulders, and his blood shot eyes snapped open. His gaze latched onto Anders and he began struggling in Isabela and Hawke’s grip. “No…” he croaked. He broke free and lurched forward, his palms coming to smack on the tabletop. “Don’t let him touch me,” he hissed. His legs gave out from under him, and if it hadn’t been for Aveline’s quick reflexes, he would have dropped to the floor in an undignified pile.

Anders privately thought it would have served him right.

Anders crossed his arms and watched as Fenris was bodily lifted and placed on the table, his sword removed from his back. It said something about the elf’s current state that it only took three of them to do it. If Fenris didn’t want to do something, then he wasn’t going to do it, and fuck whoever made him try.  Anders respected him for it. Or at least, he would if Fenris wasn’t such an unmitigated ass. As it was, Anders was finding far too much enjoyment in his predicament.

He grinned down at the elf who glared back at him, his eyes snapping green fire.  “What happened to him?” Anders asked. He was rewarded when Fenris immediately lurched forward and tried to scramble off the table, his eyes panicked.

Now… Wasn’t this interesting?

“He won’t tell us,” Hawke volunteered. “We found some blood mages that had summoned demons at the Wounded Coast.”

“Shocker,” Anders muttered.

“And Fenris got the brunt of several spells—at once. By the time we were able to dispatch them and get him out of there, we noticed he… uh…” Garrett scratched at his beard.

“He glowed.” Isabela wiggled her fingers. “More so than usual. It was pretty blinding at first. Then he started shouting in that pretty language—“

“Arcanum,” Anders supplied.

“Yes, that’s the one. He started shouting at someone that wasn’t there, and then he passed out.” She paused, and tapped her chin with a finely manicured nail. “Did I mention he also had a very visible hard on during the whole time?”

“Shut your mouth!” Fenris snapped, his words slightly slurred. “You’re a lying whore.”

Isabela raised her eyebrows at him. “Where have you been? That isn’t news to anyone.” She rolled her eyes towards Anders. “You’re a mage. Go do mage stuff and find out what’s wrong with him. As fun as this is, it’s a bit disturbing.”

“What kind of demons were they?” Merrill piped up. The room fell silent, and even Fenris turned his head to stare at her. “What? It’s a logical question. A demon casting a spell at the right time—or in this case wrong—can cause a lot of damage. If his spiritual and mental defenses were down from the other spells…” She trailed off into silence when Fenris began shaking his head franticly.

“We are done here!” Fenris snapped, and made to move off the table again.

Without thinking, Anders placed his hand on Fenris’ chest and pushed him back to the thick wood of the tabletop. But with Fenris’ momentum, Anders’ fingers grazed the uncovered flesh of his throat. The reaction was instantaneous. Fenris’ brands flared brightly and he moaned, his eyes rolling in the back of his head.

“Oh, my…” Isabela purred. “He didn’t do  _that_  when we touched him.”

With his eyes glazed, Fenris grabbed Anders’ by the wrist and half pulled himself closer to the mage, and half yanked Anders down. The mage lost his balance, and his hip slammed into the table edge.

But the pain was nothing compared to what Fenris did next. He ran his tongue up the column of Anders’ throat, his breath hot in the mage’s ear. He murmured something in a husky whisper, and Anders froze as his mind attempted to catch up and translate the Arcanum.

_I want your cock in my mouth._

Anders reared back, and Fenris stopped him from escaping, his arms slipping around the mage’s neck in a vise-like grip, clinging to Anders the way he’d once seen an elf named Zevran latch onto the Warden-Commander. Fenris was no less seductive as he rose up on his knees, sliding across the table to bring himself closer to Anders. His head dropped down, and he looked up at Anders with heated eyes through dark lashes and snowy white hair. Fenris ran a lewd tongue along his upper lip, wetting the plump flesh.

“You want to fuck me, Anders?” Fenris asked in Arcanum.

A chair scraped across the floor to Anders’ right, and he glanced over to see Isabela making herself comfortable. She propped her elbows on the table, and settled her chin in the cradle of her hands, her eyes avid. “Don’t mind me.” She winked at him. “After I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t having a very vivid and wonderful dream, I decided I needed a front row seat.”

“Not helping!” Anders told her. He jerked his head to the other side, his eyes begging the others to do something. Sebastian and Aveline looked horrified, and Sebastian’s face was a lurid shade of red.

“Oh, don’t act so damned shocked,” Anders admonished them. “Is it so hard to believe that someone would want me to fuck them?”

Oh… Shit…

“Is that what he said?” Isabela asked. “Can you get him to repeat it? Just in case I’m ever in Tevinter and I need to know.”

“Yes!” Anders shouted franticly. “I mean no! No, that’s not what he said. Damn it, Hawke, help me here!” Fenris’ lips had latched on Anders’ earlobe, worrying at the sensitive flesh with his teeth. Anders’ heart sped up, and he had the wild thought that he always knew that Fenris was going to cause his heart to burst from his chest.

This just wasn’t what he’d had in mind—more pain, less humiliating.

And Varric—damn him—was chuckling to himself, and doing fuck all to help.  It was Sebastian that made the first move, striding over to Anders and curling his fingers carefully under Fenris’ claw tipped gauntlets that Anders could feel scratching against the back of his neck.

The flare of lyrium was unmistakable, and so was the deep growl that emanated from Fenris. “Touch me again, and I’ll kill you where you stand. He’s mine.” Fenris’ accent had deepened, but his words were clear enough. Sebastian raised his hands in the air and moved back carefully.

“Desire demon?” Merrill asked.

“Got it in one, Kitten,” Isabela laughed. “This… This is amazing.”

“Wait a minute,” Hawke said slowly. “Wouldn’t that mean that Fenris desires… Anders?”

“You stop that thought right there, Champion,” Anders blurted out. “You say one more word, and I… I… I’ll never heal your sword swinging ass again!”  _Nice comeback_ , Anders thought to himself snidely.  _Got anymore witticisms up your sleeve where that came from?_

“He’ll stop after a while,” Merrill said helpfully. “The demon is dead, I’m assuming. Her influence on him won’t last too much longer. I think he’ll be fine.”

“You  _think_? Not inspiring confidence, Merrill.” Anders’ hands were fighting with Fenris’. The elf had lowered his arms, but now he was trying to lift up Anders’ tunic and undo the laces on his britches. Oh, Maker, that’s all he needed right now, was for Fenris to find Anders burgeoning erection. It wasn’t his fault! He dared anyone in this room to not get turned on when they had an elf that looked like Fenris growling in their ear, and rubbing themselves against them.

Okay, maybe not Aveline, Merrill or Sebastian. Although Anders had his suspicions about the dear Brother.

The backs of Fenris’ fingers brushed along Anders’ cloth covered erection, the jointed metal pressing against heated skin. Anders bit down hard on his inner cheek, and the tang of blood filled his mouth. He was not going to let the others hear him moaning.

“Fenris, stop,” he said in Arcanum. “It’s Anders. You know, the abomination? You  _hate_  me! Want to rip out my heart and show it to me. Is any of this ringing a bell?” If his voice came out as a rasp, then he ignored it as Fenris abandoned the laces and slipped his hands under Anders’ tunic, his claws scratching lightly at his skin and catching on a nipple.

Speaking of abominations… Where the fuck was Justice? A Templar shows up and Anders loses track of time. He gets pawed by an admittedly hot elf, and Justice is nowhere to be seen.

Fenris paused and he tilted his head up to look at Anders in the eyes. “I don’t hate you. Been wanting you for a long time,” he murmured in Arcanum. He moved his head forward, his lips hovering a scant hair’s breadth from Anders’. “I want to feel your cock sliding into me, your body pressing me into the table. When I touch myself, my fingers sunk deep inside me, I pretend you’re with me.”

Anders had a moment to suck in a shocked breath before Fenris crushed their lips together, his tongue thrusting inside the mage’s slack mouth. Anders gave himself up to the kiss, because he hadn’t known until this very moment how much he had wanted this very same thing. But Isabela’s happy clapping broke the moment, and Anders jerked his head away, Fenris’ lips chasing him.

“We… We’re in public,” Anders stuttered. “I…” He knew he was going to regret what he was about to do, but there was nothing else for it. If Fenris was telling the truth, then this wasn’t how Anders wanted it to happen.

He glanced at Merrill. “Sleep spell, now.”

“Aw…” Isabela groaned. “Just when it was getting good. I could have used a translation, though.”

There was a surge of magic to his left, and Fenris abruptly slumped against Anders.  As Anders gently laid the elf on his back, he brushed Fenris’ bangs out of his closed eyes. “It’s for the best,” Anders answered.


	2. Pride

Fenris couldn’t do it.

It had been a week since the  _incident_ , and he still couldn’t make himself leave his mansion. Every time he would attempt it, Fenris would pause at the door, standing paralyzed with one hand on the latch.

 

He paced back and forth in front of the door, glaring at the unoffending, heavy wood as if it was to blame for his current humiliation. The tips of his ears grew hot at the memory, and Fenris was just thankful that no one else was around to see it. He knew that Anders would argue that Fenris had little control over himself, citing numerous times that Fenris had plunged his hand into a chest, slipping pass flesh and bones like water, to wrap his fingers around a franticly beating heart. He knew that’s what the mage would say, but Fenris kept a tighter rein on his emotions than the others realized, leashing them far below the surface, hiding them under the anger, bitterness, and scathing remarks. Those were emotions he was comfortable with showing to others, those were safe emotions. He used them as weapons and armor, defending himself against the type of pain he was all too aware that others could inflict on him, if he so much as showed the smallest hint of weakness.

Just like the weakness he’d shown at the Hanged Man.

He was acutely aware that they all thought it had been the desire demon that had torn down Fenris’ defenses, and he had let them think so, their words penetrating through the haze of need that Anders’ touch and scent had engendered. But the desire demon hadn’t been the only one there, and Fenris was long use to banking his desires. Desire had no place in the Imperium if you were a slave. Any desires that a slave had were at the behest of their masters. To want something for himself had been an anathema, something that needed to be ignored, lest he be found out that he had needs.

He still didn’t know how to contend with day to day niceties and feelings that others seemed to have so effortlessly.  Anger he knew, anger he embraced. Anger was simple. Anger protected. It pushed everyone away, keeping Fenris safe.

No, it had been a different demon that had wormed its way into Fenris’ soul, a spiritual parasite that had grinned at Fenris with too many teeth, hissing out laughter when it cast one last spell before it died.

Desire was something that Fenris was use to warring with, wrestling it into submission until he’d once had no needs at all.

It had been his pride that the demon had attacked, tearing it away from Fenris, pulling the armor of his anger back until he was left bare and exposed. The pride demon had taken from Fenris something that he had worked hard to build up piece by piece, for every step he had taken away from Danarius and the Imperium. His brands had ignited to protect him, feeding off his distress as he had railed at the spot where the pride demon’s body had once been. Only a stain had been left, a smudge of dark grease corrupting the ground.

Fenris had felt naked then, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt since he had first woken up in blood and agony and fear. His mind had recoiled from it, and had retreated to the last time he had felt warmth.

Anders…

The mage didn’t know, couldn’t know, Fenris’ conflicted feelings and wants. He couldn’t know how it felt when he placed his hands gently on Fenris’ ribs, healing cleanly a gash that had splayed open his flesh and sluggishly oozed blood, soothing the pain away, until Fenris could feel nothing but warmth that zipped up his brands like a hot drink in the cold night, spreading through his limbs. He couldn’t know how Fenris had learned to crave that, the only one he allowed to touch him, because it was all right then, Anders was only healing him, so he didn’t have to pretend that he didn’t want the casual touches that his friends were so free with, their arms slung around each other in comradely. It was okay to let Anders’ fingers graze over his skin. And if Fenris closed his eyes, he could pretend that Anders was doing it because he wanted to touch Fenris, not because he was a healer that couldn’t allow a wound to remain unchecked.

Fenris had begun to crave those times, the way Anders would lean over him to wrap a bandage, his feather pauldrons brushing against Fenris’ cheek, smelling of elfroot and the rain. He had begun to notice why Anders had those slight creases in his forehead, the skin wrinkling in concentration as he worked. The way his tongue would peek out the corner of his mouth, wetting his lips while magic flowed from his fingers.

Fenris had grown hard then, lost in his thoughts, lost in his many imaginings of Anders.

It hadn’t been desire that had undone him, it had been pride. His hard won pride that prevented him from going to the clinic when he couldn’t sleep, to seek out Anders and tell the mage exactly what he wanted from him and how. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was a mage, a mage that had no care for his self. There could be no good end for Anders, and it tore Fenris apart when he thought if it, powerless to stop the mage’s escalation into destruction.  He knew how this tale would end. He didn’t need a storyteller like Varric to tell him.

The anger was safer, always safer.

Anger made it so when he finally lost Anders to Justice, he would already be wrapped up in his armor, stronger than steel.

But he knew it would never dull the pain.

Pride gone, he had become a wanton thing, a shameless creature heedless of what he was saying and what he was doing. For a moment when their lips had met, Anders had responded back, and that had been the best and cruelest revenge the pride demon could have had.

He couldn’t leave the house. Fenris couldn’t face the others. He could barely face himself.

He stood motionless in front of the door, when he realized he didn’t even have his sword. He shook his head in self-recrimination. He had already given up leaving the house before he’d even left his room. He just hadn’t known it.

He turned to leave the entry hall, when there was a loud banging on his door. Fenris whirled around to face it, and watched with narrowed eyes as the latch was jiggled. Few came to the mansion, unless it was Hawke or Donnic. Occasionally one of the others would come, but a note would always be sent first to ensure that they would even be let in. The citizens of Hightown thought the place was haunted. A notion that Fenris didn’t disabuse them of.

There was another bang , and Fenris strode over to the door. He threw the bolts, three of them that he’d installed when he took possession of the house. With a snarl on his lips, he yanked open the door.

Only to have Anders stumble through.

“Maker, shut the damned door,” Anders rasped. He took a few steps and turned to lean his back against a wall, some of the wallpaper ripping free as he sank down. Anders lifted a shaking hand from his side, and Fenris could see the unmistakable sheen of wet blood coating his fingers and his palm. He immediately shut the door shut and slammed the bolts home.

Anders looked up at Fenris through pain wracked eyes. “Templars found me,” he said with gritted teeth. “Had to make a run for it. You were closest. I couldn’t risk leading them to Hawke’s place.”

“But you have no compunctions about leading them here.” Fenris crossed his arms and tapped his foot on the floor. “Why aren’t you healing yourself?” Safe anger. Safe harsh words and accusations.

Anders rolled his eyes and knocked the back of his head against the wall. “Damned Templars came prepared. Lovely thing a smite. It prevents me from using any magic for a period of time. I need to wait it out.” He raised a blond eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I’m sure even if I did bleed out on your floor, it won’t ruin the decor.”

Fenris felt a flare of panic that he quickly tamped down. He knew little about healing, except that when he was injured, he had to go and see Anders. But he  _did_  know that Anders was bleeding heavily. Already he could smell the metallic tang of it in the air, just under the musty scent of neglect that permeated the mansion.

“What do you need from me?” Fenris asked before he could stop the words from escaping.

Anders tilted his head to the side and gave Fenris a considering look. “From you? How about you tell me why you want me to fuck you while I wait for my connection to the Fade to return?”


	3. Justice

“Get out.”

Anders’ laughed softly at Fenris’ predictable answer, and pain shot up his side from his wound.  Anders felt a little bit giddy, and it had nothing to do with his wound, or Fenris glowering down at him.

 

For the first time in a very long time, Anders was without Justice’s presence. Oh, he knew the spirit was still there, crouching in Anders’ psyche where he’d made his home, carving out pieces of Anders to make room for himself. There had been no gentle melding of spirit and soul, no intermingling of what was Justice and what was Anders. Justice was not kind, and never had been. He was a concept, a construct of whatever being had created him, and he  _was_  justice.

 Anders had fooled himself into thinking that Justice had ever been his friend, had ever understood the Wardens that he’d found himself with. Anders knew that now. What had once been endearing in Justice, had taken on a new tone. When Justice had said that he did not understand the feelings that lingered in Kristoff’s corpse, clinging to dead flesh like a series of paintings in decay, portraits of a man’s life, Anders should have paid better attention.

But he hadn’t.

Anders’ body was never meant to have more than one inhabitant, his skull not large enough to contain what should have been free. He was neither Anders nor Justice, but a creature entirely in between, swaying back and forth between the two, constantly in motion.

It was like that moment when Anders would put down a heavy sack he’d been carrying for far too long, his limbs suddenly light, and he would feel if he closed his eyes he could just float away. Justice had become a weight, dragging Anders down into the mire with him, heavy chains trapping him as he struggled to breathe above up the muck.

He mourned his friend. He mourned what had become of them both. The horror of it, the thing that kept Anders up late into the night, his hand over his chest to make sure it was even still beating, feeling the steady thrum of it again his palm, was that none of it was against his will. He had embraced Justice, embraced their cause. It sustained them both, a meal that they could live off of, but never truly live with.

Anders was well aware where his resolve was taking him. Andraste had been the spark for change, igniting it as she was set aflame. It would take no less than to follow in her footsteps to bring the system down. Thedas needed another martyr, and Anders was determined it be him.

But he found his resolve wavering with Justice and his influence on Anders absent.

He knew he shouldn’t have said anything to Fenris, but this sudden freedom of self had unleashed his words in a way they hadn’t been since he had stepped out of the gates of the Vigil, leaving it far behind.

Plus blood loss. Anders could be realistic when the situation called for it.

Sometimes…

“I don’t think I will. You want to force me out of your house?” Anders got to his feet, leaving a smear of blood in the shape of a handprint behind. “But you won’t, will you? You want me.”

Fenris’ lips curled in a sneer, wrinkling the bridge of his nose. Anders always liked to think it was his warning sign, like how some animals would hiss, change colors, or roar, before ripping you apart. But Anders wasn’t afraid. While Fenris was certainly capable of killing Anders, the elf had yet to actually do it. What had happened at the Hanged Man had explained why.

Anders knew his time was short, his connection to the Fade and Justice would be reestablished, once more winding chains around him, sinking Anders down until he could no longer see, hear, or speak. Until he was no better than the Tranquil, his body walking and talking, but what made up Anders was no longer there, a puppet whose master had no understanding of human emotions.

Anders hated Justice at the moment, hated himself for changing them both, for setting them down this path. There was no compromising with Justice—it was either one thing or another. And while Anders had once found strength in it, an outlet for the boy that had been torn from his mother’s skirts, for the young man who had been left alone in the dark, screaming at the walls of his cells until he no longer had a voice, for the man who had found sanctuary, friends, but had to flee in order to protect himself, because the safety had been a lie, at this moment, at this very second, Anders regretted his choices.

“I do not want you. You mention it again, and I will take your tongue,” Fenris growled.

“Do it.”

The two men locked eyes, a battle of wills raging in the air between them, pulling hair-thin as the silence stretched out to the snapping point. When it did break, Fenris let out an inarticulate cry of rage and rushed forward. His hands gripped Anders’ shoulders, crushing the feathers in his pauldrons, some of the spines catching in the joints of the elf’s gauntlets.  Anders’ back slammed to the wall behind him, his head cracking against the peeling wallpaper.

“Don’t tempt me, mage. You’re weak and without your magic. I could crush you.” Fenris drew his face in close, crowding Anders, pushing back physically the way Anders was pushing mentally.

Anders hadn’t felt so alive in more years than he could count.

“You won’t, though. You won’t hurt me.” A realization settled in, catching Anders off guard. “You don’t like the fact that you want me, do you?”

Fenris’ nostrils flared at the question. “You?” he looked away, his bangs falling over his eyes. “There is no  _you_  anymore. There is only  _them_  now.”

“What are you saying, Fenris?” Anders didn’t know what he had expected when he first opened his mouth to ask the elf the questions that had been plaguing Anders for days, inserting themselves in his every thought, his every action. So many times he had found himself locking up the clinic with every intention of heading to Fenris’ mansion, to force the elf to explain, to hear for himself without the inducement of magic that he wanted the mage. But each time he would stop himself, a few steps taken away from the clinic door. What was Anders looking for? He’d been so damned glad that Garrett had taken Anders at his word, and stopped his flirting, moving on to Isabela instead. Anders wasn’t the man he used to be, the reckless mage that took his pleasures when he could, and damn the consequences. He’d been so foolish then. How many times he had gotten another in trouble with the Templars just for a quick fuck? How many times had the Templars come storming into a brothel that Anders was hiding in, threatening the patrons and the employees? Had he ever once given a thought to what would happen to them for harboring him? Maybe a small part of him had, but it had been all fun and games.

Anders knew better now.

Something was happening between him and Fenris. There was a charge in the air, like the tang that filled his nostrils right before he let loose with lightening. Here in this moment with Justice hobbled, and the entrance hall dark and closed off like a confessional, it felt as if the two of them were removed from the rest of Kirkwall, from the rest of Thedas. Moments like that happened so rarely, but when they did Anders knew it denoted change. It was a time for harsh truths spilling into the air.

Fenris felt it too.

“Justice.” Fenris turned to meet Anders’ eyes once more. “He will be the death of you, and you do not care. It matters not how many times all of us have told you that you’re ideals will get you killed. It doesn’t matter how you are told. You have chosen your course, and I…  _we_  are powerless to stop the evitable fall of the cliff.

“You dare to ask me if I hate that I want you? I hate that you will seek justice for others, but not for yourself. I hate that one of the first thing I have… I have wanted for my own since I freed myself will be taken from me.”  It was as if the wineskin that contained Fenris’ words had been punctured, and they came streaming out. “I hate that I’m going to watch you die one day. I hate that you run towards this death. I hate that when you touch me I savor the moment, because it is all I’ll ever have of you. And do not tell me otherwise, because I will never allow more. I will not allow myself to… to have the illusion of you that we both would know is a lie. Your demon will always come first, and I hate that most of all.

“I do not dislike that I want you. I hate that the you I want, isn’t real.”

Anders stared at Fenris, his heart in his throat if the way his pulse was beating rapidly was anything to go by. Oh, Maker, it hurt. The pain all the more intense because Anders had spent days thinking about how it would be with the two of them, how much he wanted to taste Fenris’ lips once more, sipping at his cries of pleasure. How they could lay in each other’s arms, speaking softly of nonsense things. Or maybe that Anders could get Fenris to see that not all mages were corrupt, and in return, Fenris could explain to Anders just where the Imperium had gone wrong.

Silly imaginings that seemed all the more foolish now. Anders should have known that this was how it would be. He had forgotten the words he had told Hawke, how he would one day hurt Garrett. Hawke had taken Anders at his word, and Fenris… Fenris hadn’t even needed the warning.

Anders closed his eyes, blocking out Fenris’ face, as if he was a child and thought that if he couldn’t see the elf, then Fenris couldn’t see him. “I have known for a long time now that I am going to die soon. This is the first time I truly regret that.”

Fenris pushed against his shoulders, slamming his back against the wall to get his attention. Anders’ eyes snapped open to see Fenris scowling up at him. “Ask your demon where the justice is in that. Ask him if it is just that you sacrifice yourself for your cause.”

“Fenris…” Anders began.

“No! You have asked your questions and I have answered. Now answer mine. Where is the justice in this?” Fenris’ voice broke on the last word, and Anders aw his throat work as he swallowed heavily. Anders knew why. It was that choking sensation, the feeling of too much too soon, and neither one of them could breath.

Anders understood then. He understood it all. It’s what gave him the courage to say his next words, using it as a knife to cut the thickness in his throat. “You love me,” he stated simply.

Fenris let out an inarticulate sound of rage. Anders had heard Fenris cry out in anger many times in the years they had known each other—blood curdling screams that garnered the attention of all that heard him. But this was different. The sound was pulled from deep inside Fenris, speaking without words of his anger and his pain. Anders had heard its like only once before. It was the same sound his mother had made when Anders had been torn from her, her callused hands outstretched as his father held her back while the Templars dragged him away. It was the sound of loss, of being powerless, of the rage it called forth, and despair.

And Anders was just as powerless against it. He surged forward, crushing their lips together. His time was almost done, he could feel his connection to the Fade returning, and with it Justice’s presence restored. The kiss wasn’t a neat, gentle meeting of the lips. It was deep intensity, their teeth clacking together as Fenris responded, tongues darting into open mouths.

Anders was the one to pull away, his kiss swollen lips parting as he panted for breath. “You make me want so much,” he admitted, his words breaking on each exhalation.

“Damn you.” Fenris took a step back, and his hands lowered from Anders’s shoulders, taking feathers with him, taking pieces of Anders with him.

“I—“

And then everything went black.

**

Fenris steeled himself as telltale cracks spider webbed along Anders’ face, Justice’s light exploding from the mage’s skin. This he could do. His anger at Justice was a comfort, and Maker help him, but Fenris needed the rage.

He shouldn’t have fallen victim to the moment. He should have left Anders in the entry hall to wait out the return of his magic alone. But even though it had been days since the Hanged Man, Fenris was still too raw, and Anders’ questions had been relentless and right to the point.

And Fenris had been so tired of hiding.

So truths for truths, an exchange where there had been no such thing as too much, because it Fenris couldn’t let it fester any longer.  But the things Anders had said, as if Fenris could be the thing in Anders’ life that made him want more than an ugly death at the end of a Templar sword.

It had been a cruel hope, damn him.

Fenris could almost hate Anders for that.

Justice tilted his head to the side. Blue eyes crackling with the energy of the Fade examined him, as if he couldn’t figure out what Fenris precisely was.

“You will distract him,” he finally intoned, his voice echoing from Anders’ throat as if he was speaking through water.

“You will answer my question then, since Anders did not.” Fenris’ hands clenched and unclenched, feathers falling free from his gauntlets and drifting to the floor. “Where is justice for Anders?”

“Justice for mages is justice for Anders.” The demon stated it as if it was fact, as if Fenris was simple and needed it to be explained in small words.

“Bullshit,” Fenris growled. “You would let him die for your ideals, for his ideals. You will cause those that… care about him to mourn him. You cause that now. Who do we seek for vengeance when he is dead? The Templars that killed him, or the spirit that did not stop him? Anders has called you friend, but I have yet to see it. Do you wish to know what I do see? I see a demon that is using a mage for his own ends, heedless of the danger. You claim that you’re a spirit of the Fade, but I do not see the difference between you and the demons you despise. Where is Anders’ justice?” Anders had begun the loosening of Fenris’ words, and now he couldn’t stop them from tripping over his tongue.

“I am no demon!”

“Then prove it!” Fenris shouted back. His brands flickered and then flashed in his agitation. “If he dies because of you, I will find wherever you go when you leave his body, and I will destroy you myself.”

Justice took a step back, bumping against the wall. “I am no demon.” The spirit’s words were spoken more to himself, a faint muttering that whispered in the room.  He touched Anders’ blood slick palm to his wounded side and healing magic trickled through his fingers. He straightened, pulling himself up to the fullness of Anders’ height. “All of you will have your proof.” The light went out in Anders’ eyes, and the mage collapsed to the ground.

**

Anders snuggled deeper under the covers. He was so warm, warmer than he’d been in a long time. He could hear a fire crackling in the room, and he smiled softly to himself. He pressed his nose into the pillow, inhaling deep the scent of leather, steel, and something else just under them, something that brought forth memories of green eyes as hard as iron bark.

His eyes snapped open, and he bolted upright from the bed. Anders had only been in this room once, and that had been long ago. When demons had risen from the floors, and a runaway slave had called out challenges to a master that was no longer there. If Fenris had not touched the rest of the mansion, he had most certainly made this room habitable. The bed that Anders laid on was new, and the mage vaguely recalled Varric mentioning the trouble he’d had in getting someone to deliver it to the mansion. The mattress was stuffed thick, almost cocooning Anders, cradling his body in a way that he hadn’t felt since he had left a keep in Amaranthine, taking only the barest of possessions with him.

“I was wondering if you would wake soon.”

Anders jerked his head towards the fire, and one of two chairs that were set before it. Fenris raised the bottle of wine in his hand towards Anders, and then set it down on a small side table. He sat sprawled in the chair, an indolent elven king on his throne. His armor was set neatly on the floor next to him, stacked near Anders’ coat and boots.

Pushing himself upright, Anders gingerly touched where his wound had been. His tunic was torn and stained with dried blood, but there was no sign other than a small scar that he had ever been slashed with a Templar sword.

“Justice healed you before he retreated,” Fenris murmured. “We had an… interesting conversation.”

Interesting wouldn’t even begin to describe a conversation with Justice. No one spoke with Justice, the spirit made proclamations and demands. At least, that’s what Anders had been told. He hated the loss of control over his own body, hated how he would miss minutes, hours , and at one point days. More of Justice carving out pieces of Anders to fit himself inside. More proof that Anders was losing himself. He didn’t talk about it, though. The others, they knew it was happening. He could see it in their strained smiles, and in how their eyes wouldn’t quit meet his, as if Anders was a dwarven powder keg ready to go off, reducing everything around him to rubble.

The thought had him turning his head away from Fenris, and gaze at the wall on the other side of the bed. His eyes absently tracked the haphazard patches in the wallpaper. It seemed as if Fenris had collected bits and pieces from wherever he found them, plastering them up in mismatched collages that had no real meaning.

Anders knew there was some sort of psychological analogy for that, but he was damned if he could think of it.

He could practically feel the heaviness of the spell book that was hidden under a floorboard  in the clinic, could smell its musty scent. It taunted him, calling to him to open the yellowing pages, to do what must be done.

Tears pricked the backs of his eyes, and Anders squeezed them shut. This was the point that Justice would whisper in Anders’ mind, brushing away his concerns about their plan. It wasn’t a true voice in his head, but more of a feeling that Anders knew wasn’t his own.

At least, Maker, help him, he hoped it wasn’t.

Because if it wasn’t, then that meant that Anders had finally gone down that slippery slope of insanity, that wild plunge that tore him away from everything and everyone.

But the whisper never came, and a tear slipped free.

“What did he say to you?” Anders asked. He was relieved when he voice didn’t betray his turmoil.

“Enough,” Fenris replied. “I asked him the same question I asked you. Where was justice for Anders?”

“And?” Anders wiped at his face and turned to face Fenris. “I’m still alive and you seem whole.” Their eyes met, and Anders drew in a shaky breath.

“You said he would prove to us all that he is no demon.” Fenris leaned forward and laced his fingers together. “Tell me, how are we to know?”

Anders knew. Anders knew exactly how they were to know. But that would require him to say something out loud that he had kept inside him ever since he had found that damned book. Speaking of it would make what he and Justice were planning a tangible thing, something that would drag in others as they sought to stop them.

Anders had never been able to talk about it, because his and Justice’s needs were almost one now. He couldn’t lay the plan solely at the spirit’s door.

The others would know what kind of monster he was becoming, ripping away the mask of jovial smiles, and revealing what Anders had turned himself into.

As he looked into Fenris’ eyes, the elf waiting for an answer to a question that Anders had never wanted to voice, he knew that for once, he wanted someone to know, to share this burden with him. To stop him from destroying himself and others.

How utterly selfish.

He lay back against the bed and drew his forearm over his eyes, hiding him from Fenris. Not looking at the elf made it easier, as if Anders was dreaming and he could say what he wanted to Fenris without repercussions.

“The Chantry,” he began, finding it hard at first to form the words, to give voice to his thoughts. “The Chantry in Kirkwall is inefficient. The city is being torn apart by Meredith and Orsino. They fight over it like mabaris with a haunch of meat. Meanwhile, the people suffer. Mages suffer. They wait for the Grand Cleric to take a side, and she has refused to do so. There can be,” he swallowed then, clearing his throat to force the words out, “no compromise. If she will not do it, then I will.”

“How?”

Anders winced. He knew that Fenris was going to ask, had counted on it, but it was painful all the same. Justice was strangely silent, and Anders had expected him to rise to the fore and put a stop to what the mage was doing.

“I… I have a spell that has the power to rip the Chantry apart. One word and it will ignite, tearing the building down. It will force Orsino and Meredith into action. Either the world will see that the Templars are cruel and vicious in their retribution, or that the mages have had the power all along to rise up and fight.”

Fenris’ chair creaked softly, and there was a taut silence before the mattress sank. The elf’s fingers curled around Anders’ arm, prying it away none too gently. Anders squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at Fenris, unable to let the elf see him just yet. But when he felt callused fingers rubbing away at the tears that Anders hadn’t even know he had shed, he was powerless to stop his eyes from opening.

Fenris gazed back at him, his hard eyes a strange juxtaposition to his gentle touch. “You don’t want to do this thing,” he said simply.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” he answered honestly. “If you had the chance to free every slave in Tevinter, would you take it? What price would you pay for that? Andraste willingly paid.”

“Destroying people that are innocent is a price I would not pay. You are foolish if you think that it’s worth it. I have heard Andraste touted as the freer of slaves. Yet I have lived as one. She led armies, killed, destroyed, and for what? The Imperium had been beaten back, but they are not gone. The families of the people that will die in your name will not thank you. The mages that have lived their whole lives in the Circle and count themselves content will not thank you. Do you know what it’s like to be suddenly free? It is terrifying, yet you would loose thousands of mages into the world.

Anders… he had never thought of that. He really had not changed as much as he had thought he had. He was still the young man that did what he wished, and damn the consequences to those around him.

Fenris leaned down, his lips brushing over Anders’. “If you continue on with this ill-advised plan of yours, I will find you and kill you myself if you aren’t already dead. Justice has told me that he will prove to me that there is justice for you, that he is not a demon. Prove to me that you are not the abomination I have called you. Prove to me that you can be the example to other mages you say you are.”

He couldn’t help it, Anders laughed. “You kiss me and then threaten me. Do you have any idea how confusing you are?”

“No more than you are,” Fenris shot back.

“I just told you I have plans to destroy the Chantry of Kirkwall. Does that do anything to you?”

“You act as if I should be surprised.” Fenris slid his fingers over the rough stubble of Anders’ jawline, and slowly wrapped them around his throat. “I’m not. Don’t think my… feelings for you will dissuade me from doing what must be done if you follow through.”

“Are you assigning yourself as my guardian, Fenris?” Anders whispered. “Are you going to save from from myself?”

“Someone has to…” Fenris rested his forehead against Anders’. “I won’t be kind to you the way Hawke is. I won’t ignore the things you do, pretending as if it’s not happening. I will say things that will make you angry with me, and I am sure you will say them in return.”

“Can I say that I kind of like our arguments at times? It’s too easy to get you riled up.”

Fenris rubbed his thumbs along the underside of Anders’ jaw. “That would not surprise me as well. Tell me that you will change your course. Tell me that,” he blew out a shaky breath, “you will consider other options. Tell me that you will fight him.”

Anders didn’t need to be told who  _he_  was. “I… I don’t know what you see in me.” If Anders had told any truths that night, it was this. It still stunned him, warping everything he thought he knew of the elf.

“Shall I list them out? Tell you pretty things as if you were some Orlesian maiden? There isn’t one thing, or even a list I could compile.  I… I know what it’s like to scream for freedom and have no one heed you. I know how it feels to see your kind in bondage, while the rest of Thedas pretends it isn’t happening. I… I understand, but I do not condone.”

And what could Anders say to that? This night marked the most that Fenris and Anders had ever spoken to each other without arguing, their words lashing at each other more sure than Isabela’s daggers.  It had been so long since someone had wanted to try and protect Anders. The last person had been a man, far away in Ferelden, who had shouted down a Templar and garnered the support of the king to save Anders. And here was Fenris, a prickly ex-Tevinter slave, who had good reason to hate magic, vowing to help him using the only words he knew how to say.

As he searched Fenris’ eyes and saw the determination, the steely will that promised Anders that he would not be alone in his fight to put the pieces of himself back together, he knew that Fenris did indeed understand.

“I swear,” Anders whispered. “We’ll both prove to you that we are not a demon.”

And as Fenris closed the distance between them, slanting his lips over Anders, he knew it was a promise he would keep.

**

Fenris rocked his hips against Anders as he straddled the mage’s thighs. Wordless, they had stripped off their clothes, fingers fumbling in laces, and arms tangling in sleeves. When a piece of clothing had been removed, their mouths would meet in a quick, uncoordinated kiss, before they parted once more to fling another article of clothing off the bed.

Fenris’ heart slammed in his chest, until he could feel the pounding of his own pulse in his throat. It had been so long since anyone had touched him this much—since he’d allowed it. He arched his body into each glide of Anders’ fingers on his chest, the mage’s fingertips tracing the dips and swirls of his brands. The mineral that had been deposited under his skin usually pained him, little pulls against his flesh that would culminate into agony by the end of the night. At times, Fenris had wanted to claw the lyrium out, his nails scratching at it. But whatever the ritual was that Danarius had performed had made them a permanent fixture. Scars would stop at the brands, continuing on to the other side. But Anders had healer’s hands, light touches in all the places where Fenris would have felt pain, as if he knew exactly where they were.

Maybe he did.

Anders’ braced one hand behind him and sat up, hauling Fenris closer with the other. Their cocks, freely leaking their excitement, bumped against each other, and the two men moaned in pleasure. Fenris didn’t know what precisely he had been once, but Varania was gone, taking Leto with her. He thought that maybe Andes was like that too, a man who was trying to find who he was, struggling against what had once been and what was now. Fenris didn’t know if he’d had one or one hundred partners before the ritual. He only knew Danarius’ touch, and the revulsion it had engendered. But even though it had been years, and Anders wasn’t Danarius, Fenris couldn’t make himself do certain things yet.

He had insisted he remain on top, and Anders hadn’t questioned it. There would be time for that later. Their emotions were still too raw, too many revelations, that to add more might make one or both of them snap completely.

Anders’ hand was on his ass, kneading the well-muscled flesh under his palm. He was careful not to touch the line of lyrium that ran over the outer edge of Fenris’ backside, and the elf was well aware of it. He deepened their kiss, telling Anders without words that he appreciated it.

Anders’s index finger slid over to rest in the crack of Fenris’ ass, the tip tapping once against the elf’s entrance. Fenris broke the kiss and gasped, clenching and unclenching his backside in anticipation as his head dropped back. Anders mouthed over Fenris’ throat as the elf ground down against him.

There was a hesitation in Fenris, and he fought against it. It had been so much easier when his pride had been destroyed, stripped away from him in a fit of demon pique.

It didn’t help that Anders began whispering in his ear, his stubble rasping over Fenris’ cheek.

“Tell me again,” Anders murmured. “Tell me how you would think of me while you were touching yourself.” He rocked his hips, pressing against Fenris’ erection.

Fenris cursed at him in Arcanum even as he complied. “I would… I would imagine us like this… Just like this.” 

“Tell me,” Anders insisted. “Tell me so that I know this isn’t going to be the only time. Tell me so that I know that you really want this to happen.”  His hand left Fenris’ ass, reaching for the side table.

Fenris buried his face in Anders’ sweaty neck, his teeth closing over his collarbone. “Do you think I would give myself to you for only one night?” he asked, panting into Anders’ skin. “This isn’t going to work like that.”

“Yeah?” There was a telltale pop of a cork, and then Fenris felt the slick splash of the elfroot extract he kept near his bed spilling down the crack of his ass, and dribbling over his balls.  “Then how is this going to work?” The empty bottle clinked as it hit the rug, Anders tossing it off the bed.

Fenris raised his head, meeting Anders’ hooded eyes. “You don’t own me. But I will stay with you of my free will. You don’t lie to me, especially about Justice. You do and I’m gone.”

“You don’t trust easily.” It wasn’t a question, and Anders didn’t phrase it as such.

“No. And neither do you. I’ve…” Fenris turned his head, and then jerked it back to meet Anders’ eyes, as if he was forcing himself to look at the mage. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, struggled against it. You ask me what I thought about…” He reached behind him and placed Anders’ hand back on his ass. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone touched me like this? Because I do not. It’s always been different with you. I… I do not hate it.”

Anders grinned. “That’s a ringing endorsement. Please do go on and tell me how my touch doesn’t disgust you.”

Fenris scowled. “If you are going to mock me—“

“No!” Anders kissed the tip of Fenris’ nose. “No… I’m sorry. You’re Fenris, and you’re telling me you love me in your Fenris way.”

“I never said—“

“You don’t have to, Love. You’re with me right now, that says enough.”  Anders pulled Fenris closer, their chests crushed together. He took Fenris’ lips in a soft kiss that grew in intensity, their tongues sliding along each other and darting into their mouths. Anders’ fingers slid down the natural split in Fenris’ backside, the tip of his index fingers circling his slick hole. When the digit slipped inside up to the first knuckle, Fenris arched his back and spread his thighs, raising his ass, asking silently for more.

Anders chuckled against his lips and pulled his finger free. He shoved his hand between them, bypassing both their cocks and slipping between Fenris’ legs. At this angle, the mage could push his finger in deeper, probing and pressing for that spot inside the elf. When he found it, Fenris broke the kiss to cry out, his head dropping back, exposing the long column of his throat. His cock twitched against Anders as the mage rubbed back and forth inside him.

“You should see yourself,” Anders said in a ragged whisper. “Maker… I don’t think I’m ever going to get tired of this.”

“More,” Fenris demanded in Arcanum. He licked kiss swollen lips plumped with blood, leaving a trail of wet saliva in its wake. He gripped Anders’ shoulders, his nails digging into the skin when Anders complied and added a second finger, spearing the elf open. Fenris’ eyes dropped down to look at Anders through dark lashes. “Do you fuck as well as you talk, mage?”

Anders gave him a wicked grin. “I may have had a certain reputation once.”

“Prove it…”

“You’re asking me to prove a lot tonight,” Anders accused. In retribution he twisted his fingers inside the elf. Fenris gave him a groan of pleasure his lips parting as he panted in bliss.

Fenris rolled back into Anders’ fingers. “Hm… But I think the proving will be worthwhile.”

In reply, Anders pulled his fingers free and gripped the base of his cock with one hand, while maneuvering Fenris with the other. The elf took his bottom lip between his teeth, stark white against his olive skin.

When the first press of Anders’ cock breached his ass, Fenris froze, taking in gulps of calming breath as he forced himself to relax against the slight burn. When he felt his body give Fenris pushed down, the mage’s cock sliding into him inch by agonizing inch. Neither one of them wanted to hurry the process, wanting to savor the increasing connection between them.

When he was finally seated to the hilt, Fenris gave an experimental twitch of his hips, and was rewarded when Anders moaned, his eyes almost sliding shut. Sweat streaked the mage’s chest, and Fenris leaned forward to run the flat of his tongue over his skin, tasting the salty flavor.

Anders caressed down Fenris’ chest and sides, and the elf leaned back, bracing his hands on Anders’ thighs, exposing himself for the mage’s avid and heated gaze. Slipping his legs out from under him, Fenris placed his feet on either side of Anders’ hips, bending at the knee. He began a slow undulation, a sinuous roll of his body, working himself on the mage’s cock, his own thick erection bobbing.

Soon, the slap of Fenris smacking Anders’ pelvis filled the air, along with the wet sucking sound of his body engulfing the mage’s cock over and over. Words that had never escaped his lips before a week ago issued from his slack mouth, mumbling and crying out in Arcanum. “Yes, more. Fuck me—guh—just like that. Feels so… Fuck…  More…”

He was dimly aware of Anders gripping his hips and rutting into him, the elf’s bed creaking in protest with each jarring thrust. They surged against each other, their bodies straining. Fenris head dropped back, and his nails dug into Anders’ thighs, scratching into his skin small marks of possession. Precum dripped down his cock, coating his shaft in his excitement. He could feel the rub of Anders’ abdomen on his balls, slapping lightly against the ever tightening sac.

He couldn’t climax this way, but Fenris felt that he was about to. Just from having Anders finally inside him, just from hearing the mage grunting, his breathing ragged. He didn’t know what was going to happen between them, if either Justice or Anders could keep their promise. But right now, at this very moment, it didn’t matter. There was no room for bitterness and pain in what they were doing. Fenris could feel that in Anders’ body, and in the way that the mage reverently touched him.

When Anders touched his neglected cock, Fenris almost lost it right there, spilling himself over Anders’ tight fist. But he wanted this to last, craved the feeling of the mage shuttling in and out of him, so much better than Fenris’ own hand.

But his body’s inexorable climb towards climax couldn’t be denied, and the elf gave a hoarse shout, his mind turning itself inside out. His cock jumped in between Anders’ fingers, and his stomach muscles contracted sharply as he came.

Anders’ now slick hand returned to the elf’s hip, and he gripped him tightly as he thrust into him, moving Fenris’ body in three quick jerks over his cock. His fingers convulsed, and Anders hissed out a breath between his teeth as he climaxed, his cock twitching as it released.

Fenris fell forward, resting his forehead on Anders’ shoulder, smearing semen on them both as the mage embraced him tightly. Neither of them spoke through the thudding of their hearts, and their breath seesawing between parted lips.

It was Fenris who moved head first when their breathing slowed down, his lips finding Anders’ in a languid kiss. The words were lodged in his throat, refusing to be let loose. But for now, it was enough that Anders knew.

The mage understood that Fenris loved him.

Words were meaningless without actions, and the two of them knew this better than anyone.


End file.
